Crane out of Context
by m.michele
Summary: A series of short one-shots ranging from humanizing to humorous following Dr. Jonathan Crane in places he might not normally be. Accepting suggestions for future chapters from readers.
1. Grocery Store

Welcome to part one of my series of short one-shots, Crane out of Context. I hope these will be a little more...humanizing? humorous? I don't know. I'm hoping for reader feedback to tell me where to send Crane next, so please leave me a suggestion in the reviews! Enjoy!

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Dr. Jonathan Crane stood in the cold section of his local grocery store. The chill emanating from the open freezer units seemed magnified by the cool tile floor and the fluorescent lights that gleamed off the metal basket he pushed in front of him. The wheels of the cart squeaked as he roamed up and down the aisles of the grocery store.

He hated grocery shopping, for several reasons.

Firstly, he hated it simply because he hated shopping. God forbid he had to attend a birthday party or cookout. Somehow he always managed to get stuck with bringing chips or drinks. Couldn't he just bring something effortless like cups? Or ice?

Secondly, he found the atmosphere to be beyond depressing. And this is coming from a man who worked in an insane asylum. It wasn't the tiled floors or poor lighting; those were nothing new to him. In fact, they were standard at Arkham.

It was the people he couldn't stand: the harried housewives shuffling up one aisle and down another; the "regular joes" grasping frantically at jars and cans on the shelves. As much as he hated to make the comparison, they looked like zombies. He rolled his eyes at himself for even entertaining the notion.

And there was no escaping them, either. After making his business deal with Falcone, he was able to move up from the lowly Food Lion close to his old apartment to the nice Harris Teeter with the sushi bar close to suburban well-to-do Gotham Heights. And yet he had only traded up from blue collar workers and PTA heads to older women who started drinking their pink Cosmotinis at 2pm and brown-nosing vice presidents.

No matter how superior his intellect, he was still a man, and unfortunately enough, man cannot subsist on knowledge alone.

Wearily, Jonathan looked down at his shopping list: "Bread. Milk. Coffee." He sighed. There was a reason that his cabinets at home were nearly always empty.

Just then, two small boys ran down the aisle past him and started hopping around. "Don't step on the red!" one boy yelled. "The red is lava!" The two boys balanced precariously on alternating white squares surrounded by red ones.

Crane narrowed his eyes and smirked, an idea forming. Nonchalantly, he strolled past the boys. At first, they didn't seem to notice him, but after a moment, one of the two boys looked up at him, meeting his icy blue eyes. Jonathan nodded at him curtly and smiled.

As he walked past, he pressed a button on a device strapped to his wrist, under his sleeve. A small puff of powder leaked out of his jacket sleeve and floated towards the boys.

As Crane reached the end of the aisle and turned left, he took in the sound of the two boys screaming and crying as their skin melted off before their eyes.

A woman in clothes about ten years too young for her came running past him, and scooped the two boys up in her arms. She grabbed the wrist of the older boy and pinched the earlobe of the younger. "You stop this right now! HUSH UP! You're embarrassing me, do you hear?" She jerked them along towards the exit of the store.

Crane smiled again, and casually scanned the store around him.

"Ah. There's the coffee."

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Thanks again for reading! I'd love to hear your feedback, and suggestions for part 2!


	2. Electronics

Thank you to everyone who read my last chapter, and for all the great suggestions! I received far more than I expected, and I hope I can get to most or all of them eventually! I'm going to go with a suggestion by blueblackangel for this chapter. Thanks for reading, and keep sending in suggestions and reviews!

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The sliding doors automatically opened in front of him as Dr. Jonathan Crane entered the electronics store. A greeter in a blue polo shirt said "Hello there!" as he walked past. Crane nodded at him.

He was looking for a new charger cord for his cellular phone. He had been experimenting in the makeshift laboratory in his apartment the previous evening when he had accidentally spilled a little bit of the questionable substance he had been experimenting with. The few drops of it that had fallen onto the cord had eaten right through the rubber-plastic coating, to the metal wires. A few sparks had shot off before the thing fizzled out, a small stream of smoke floating in the air.

It was really a miracle that nothing had caught fire. And it had served a purpose of its own in a way; if the current iteration of his fear toxin was melting things like that, it was probably not going to be of use to him. He was the Scarecrow for God's sake, he frightened people. He wasn't trying to make another Two-Face.

As Jonathan looked around him, all he could see were plastic boxes with colorful paper packaging, adorned with photos of rugged handsome men with guns, large-breasted women in tight dresses, heavy-set men shrugging, looking directly out at him as some sort of ridiculous scene played out behind them.

Romantic comedies, action pictures, dramas. He was willing to admit a weakness for horror films, although he watched them more for the comedy value than anything else. He also liked some science fiction, but all of that was besides the point. He wasn't here to browse the wares. He had a purpose.

However, he didn't have a very good idea of where to go next. He backtracked a few steps to the greeter by the door. "Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of the cell phone accessories?"

"Sure thing, go left here and cut down through the video games, and you can't miss it."

"Thank you." Crane promptly followed his directions and turned left, and then right.

The boxes for the video games were somewhat more varied than the movies - they didn't always appear to fall into a clear genre. He somewhat enjoyed looking at the box art and imagining the kind of game. Of course, he didn't really play any video games, so he knew that guessing at all was pointless.

One game looked like some sort of robot monster man underwater? Another looked to be some sort of simulation of gang life in a big city? But that one was part of a series he had heard of, in reference to its violent content. There was a host of games featuring heroes garbed in everything from green pageboy outfits to plumbers in red hats (but again, it was impossible not to be aware of the small Italian plumber.) Then one particular box caught his eye.

"...Asylum..." he mumbled under his breath as he handled the box. The cover featured a man dressed in all black who looked EXTRAORDINARILY like Gotham City's caped crusader. Crane's eyes narrowed and his jaw set tightly as he felt his teeth grit together.

A game? They had made a GAME? Based on HIM? Of course they had.

"That's a good one!" said a skinny boy with shaggy blonde hair, pointing at the box. "Game of the Year edition's a little cheaper. Comes with all the DLC, too."

Crane stared blankly at the youth. DLC? ...No, wait: Game of the Year? A GAME about that boorish bat-freak had become Game of the Year?

The teen continued on, not noticing Crane's seething manner. "Yeah, The Joker is the final boss in this one, but between you and me, he's kind of a letdown. Especially compared to the stuff with Scarecrow."

Crane's attention was instantly piqued. "Scarecrow?"

"Yeah, he's great! Probably one of my favorite parts of the whole game is fighting him, man! Legit, he's scary!"

Any thoughts Crane might have entertained about hunting down and torturing the makers of the game for using his likeness without consent flew away. Not only was it rationally a bad idea to leave a trail like that, but it sounded like the makers of this game had done him a favor! His reputation was not only intact, it was inflated! He was filled with pride. Finally, someone else appreciated his work! Perhaps there was still hope for the residents of Gotham City - they couldn't all be ignoramuses, if some of them were walking around, admiring HIM. Even if it was only in a game.

He immediately thanked the kid, picked up a copy of the box, and walked towards the checkout area. He may not have gotten what he came for, but he could go without a phone for a little longer. This, however, warranted immediate inspection.

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Ahhhh yeah, Arkham Asylum jokes...That game really does our boy justice! Thanks again for reading! See you next time!~


	3. Hair

I'm not sure if this chapter works or not...but here it is! Based on a suggestion from TymanTB. Enjoy!

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Jonathan Crane looked at himself in the mirror. He could practically see the clouds of hairspray and perfume floating in the air around him.

The time for Crane's bi-monthly haircut had rolled around, and, as usual, he had set his secretary, Mina, to scheduling an appointment for him.

"Dr. Crane, I'm sorry, but I can't make an appointment with Mr. Walters for you."

"I'm sorry, what?" Crane looked up from his desk absentmindedly.

"Mr. Walters, your barber. Your hair appointment? He's retiring."

"Is he still on the line? Let me speak to him."

"Yes sir, I'll transfer him in."

Crane picked up the phone on his desk on the first ring. "Mr. Walters. I hear you're no longer taking appointments."

"Nossir. I'm finally retirin'. Gonna take a trip with the wife to Oahu."

Crane was nonplussed. "Lovely. Now, are you certain that you can't see one more client? I'd be willing to pay extra."

"Sorry, Jonny, but I can't! Plane leaves tomorrow morning! Got m'bags packed 'n' everythin'. But you could always go to Sammy."

"Sam?"

"My grandbaby. Fresh outta the academy, newly trained, y'know."

Crane groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was an overzealous trainee with electric clippers. Visions of himself with a buzz cut flashed through his head, and he cringed. Then again, he needed a haircut badly; the longer parts of hair in front near his face had taken to falling in front of his eyes in a way that nearby females seemed unable to resist. And he was not in the market for a companion at this time.

"I...'ll have you give Mina the number, then, and she'll make an appointment." Crane made the transfer, and then returned to work.

Now, a week later, he was seated at a purple formica countertop, an apron patterned with rubber ducks draped across his shoulders. The mirror in front of him had the name "Samantha" written across the top in red washable marker.

The various hairstyling utensils on the counter were actually very well organized. Some of the tools looked more like torture devices, the types of which might have been used as "treatment" in the earlier days of Arkham's history.

As organized as the hair tools were, though, the rest of the space was cluttered with various doodads, photos, and other personal objects. The young woman certainly put some of her most personal details on display. A more devious man than he might take advantage of that personal knowledge for exploitation. However, today he was simply there to get his hair trimmed.

Samantha appeared over his shoulder. "Sorry that took so long, I just had to take that call! It's my boyfriend's dog's birthday, and he wants us to go out to celebrate."

Samantha was of medium height with curves all over, from the bump in her bleached-blonde hair to the soles of her pink platform sandals. Even her manner of speech seemed full of curves, with her rounded southern vowels and "y'all"s.

"Not a problem," said Crane. The girl had already shampooed his hair, and was ready to cut. Momentarily, she pulled out a pair of small scissors and began to trim.

There was silence for a moment, and then the girl began to talk. And talk. And talk.

"It's good to have you here, Mr. Crane! Granddad retirin' and all, it's about time, and maybe him 'n' Granny'll have a good time in Hawaii! Maybe they'll go to a Luau! You know, I've heard the barbecue down there's awful good! I'd love to go sometime. I'd also love to go to Las Vegas, you ever been to Las Vegas? All those lights! I bet it's so glamorous! But I don't know if I'd wanna gamble, there's somethin' not quite right about that. Boy, I can't believe it's Buster-boo's birthday! Yeah, Buster'll be seven years old today! That's 49 in dog years, older'n' the two of us put together!" She laughed at her unfunny joke.

"How old are you, Samantha?"

"I'm 21! My boyfriend, Justin, is 25. We've been datin' since prom of his Junior year!" She smiled, happy to keep talking. She didn't notice the involuntary tic of Crane's eye as she mentioned prom. She just kept snipping away.

A blessed moment of silence. "Is that him, there?" Crane sat forward a bit and pointed to a photo taped to the side of the mirror. It showed Samantha with a typically muscled young male, in a worn white undershirt t-shirt and dusty jeans, a cap on his head. He was handsome, but he had a look in his eye that struck Crane as decidedly mean.

"Yup, that's him. Now hold still!" She waited for him to recline back in his seat.

"He's a handsome fellow. It sounds like the two of you have been together for quite a while. It must have been hard for the two of you to stay faithful. After all, you were young, certainly there were other men who caught your eye..."

...nothing. No change in her expression or demeanor. Another tack, then.

"...And he's a handsome man himself. It was probably so hard for him to be monogamous when there were probably dozens of girls throwing themselves at him." A chuckle.

Samantha's complexion paled, and he detected a shake in her hands. Ah, here we go. Perhaps she suspected him of cheating, or saw the potential for it. Maybe she simply had low self esteem. Irregardless, he had found a toehold into her insecurities.

"Well, I mean, I guess. I mean, sure, lotsa girls think Justin's good lookin', 'cause he is, but he wouldn't never do anything to hurt me like that."

"Oh, no, of course not. I never meant to imply. I'm just recalling my own high school years. I remember being in the boy's locker rooms, hearing all the other young men talking about their girlfriends, their conquests, their plans for the future. And, I have to say, there were very few at the time who had just one girl on their mind. Or perhaps that was just my generation." Crane changed his tack. "So it's your boyfriend's dog's birthday. How sweet. You're all going out for that? What do you think you're going to do?"

"Oh, uh, I don't know! Justin doesn't usually take me out, actually."

"He doesn't take you out, but he'll take his dog? How peculiar." Crane closed his eyes.

There was more silence. Or silence from Samantha. He could still hear the dozens of other hairstylists and their clients around them, gabbing on about their families, jobs, celebrity gossip. Samantha's clippings got slower and slower, and the slicing sounds of the scissors seemed to get louder and louder.

Finally, they stopped, and he heard her moving around him. She got out a razor, and trimmed the stray hairs on the back of his neck, a sensation that he rather enjoyed. Then that too stopped.

Crane opened his eyes and saw Samantha's face. She was still looking crestfallen. She no longer looked like an overzealous beauty school graduate, but instead he saw a girl desperate to live up to some self-imposed standard. He could see the damage in her bleached blonde hair, and he realized that if her pink platform heels came off, she couldn't have been more than 4'11". Her eyes looked wet. Crane sighed to himself. For the love of...

"Samantha, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. Even if Justin ever had committed any indiscretions against you, you're still together now, after so many years. He wants to share the celebration of...erm, his dog's birthday with you. You're a beautiful young woman, yourself, with a job and...you're very nice. So don't worry about anything. I...hate to have scared you, or caused you to worry."

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Crane. I know Justin's not perfect. But I just thought if I tried hard enough to make it seem like I did, maybe other people would, too. But if it's obvious to a total stranger, I'm sure everyone else knows how obnoxious he is." Her voice was near monotone.

"Well, I'm not just a total stranger, I'm a psychologist. It's my job to notice things like this; I'm just more observant than most. If you want to keep on putting on an act for your peers, by all means, go ahead. I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job. Just keep in mind that no one should have to put on an act that they don't want to, certainly not to justify another person."

Samantha undid the velcro around his neck and swept the apron off of him. Crane stood up, and set down the exact cost of the haircut on the counter, plus tip. He offered her a handshake before leaving, which she took.

"Thanks, Mr. Crane. Maybe I'll ask Justin to take me out for real sometime." She gave a halfhearated smile.

"I certainly hope you do, Samantha. And I'll see you in two months. You can tell me all about how it goes."


	4. Video Rental

This suggestion was brought to me recently by the infamous wouldyouliketoseemymask, and it was just so good, I HAD to do it. This is probably the silliest thing I've written thus far, I hope it doesn't turn any of you guys .away...ANYWAY. Let's go.

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It was just past eight o'clock, and Dr. Jonathan Crane was walking home from Arkham Asylum. It was a rare, clear night, and Gotham wasn't so chilly that he wouldn't relish the opportunity for exercise. Jonathan loved the fall. The clear, crisp air, stung his lungs, so much so that his eyes almost teared. A scarf wrapped around his neck and face, he was content.

A neon sign off to the side caught his eye. A video rental place.

_Really? Video rental? I didn't know anyone still watched VHS these days._

Crane thought haughtily of the blu-ray player he had purchased, based on reports of its superior video and sound quality. Only the best. Days of settling for anything less were far behind him now.

Still, he could recall a time in his younger years, when he and the three other boys who shared his college dorm would squash around an old TV set and put in numerous horror and science fiction films, staying up all night for marathons.

Jonathan could remember one night in particular, over Spring Break one year, when he stayed on campus by himself. He would rather have spontaneously combusted than go home for the week, and he had no close companions to invite him on trips to Miami or some other popular destination for horny young adults. Thus, he contented himself with camping out on the dorm's overstuffed beige couch. He brought his blanket and some pillows, and a giant bag of beef jerky, and stayed there, getting up only to exercise a bodily function or change the video tape.

The Exorcist. The Shining. Halloween. A Nightmare on Elm Street, that was a good one. Nosferatu, a classic. Alien. Blade Runner. He couldn't get enough of them that weekend. There was one...one other... One that had, for some reason, legitimately frightened him. What was it?

A particularly strong gust of wind caught him, and he realized he had just been standing on the sidewalk, looking at the rental place. Well, he was chilled. He could just go in for a moment, to warm up...

Once inside, he was surrounded by racks and racks of movies. Some were, indeed, on VHS, most on DVD, and a few recent new releases were also available on blu-ray. He cocked his eyebrow in approval. Jonathan navigated his way to the horror section, the familiar box art greeting him like his old college roommates never had, and likely never would.

Shortly, a familiar black figure on a blue background jumped out at him amongst blood-spattered machetes and screaming victims. The Thing! John Carpenter's The Thing! That was the one. Isolation, paranoia, icy cold wastelands and shape-shifting aliens. He pulled it off the shelf, gripping it tightly in his hand, dry and chapped from the winds outside.

Lost in thought and memory, he walked absentmindedly up one aisle and down the other, row after row after row, through romantic comedies, dramas and documentaries; action flicks and foreign films.

The woman behind the counter barely looked up from her book as he slowly walked past a red velvet curtain. Ugh. She hated that place. It always skeeved her out when guys went back there, especially when they looked as nice as that guy had. Couldn't he just get a real girlfriend? Oh well, she supposed...

Crane snapped back to his senses as he found himself face to face with a cardboard standup for another movie titled "The Thing". Except this one seemed to have little to do with the movie in his hand. He glanced at the box, before looking back up at what appeared to be a five and a half foot tall tentacle-like phallus.

He blinked several times quickly, stepping away as fast as he could. However, the back room of the rental shop was crowded, and he knocked into another rack, causing the contents to spill into the floor. Instinctively, he made a "Whoomph" sound as he stuck out his arms to try and catch them. Most of them cascaded over his open arms, slipping through his grasping hands.

Crouching, he hurriedly tried to pick them up, reaching above him to place them back on the shelves. Unable to stop himself, he processed the names of the porn titles in growing confusion and disgust.

Schindler's Fist...Sorest Rump...White Men Can't Hump...Breast Side Story...Sperminator...Batman in Robin-ok, that one was pretty funny...

Then, he sensed someone behind him.

Oh, no.

"Is uh...is everything all right back here?"

The female attendant at the counter that he had completely ignored upon entry was right behind him. Slowly, he turned around, with his most victimized expression.

"What is this?"

"I'm sorry?"

Damn. She must think him some perverted buffoon, unable to successfully navigate normal relationships; so much so that he must sink to pornography parodies of regular films for companionship, and THEN was unable to navigate those without making some sort of mess.

"What is this room?"

"It's...you know...the adult section..."

Damn, damn. She was an attractive female. Normally, this would have little to no effect, but he was vulnerable, looking like some kind of deviant, while she, like so many other attractive females of his past, just stood there and sneered. Oh God, he felt...embarrassed...dare he say it...humiliated... He did his best to convince himself that the burning he felt on his face was nothing more than a manifestation of his fury.

_Jesus, Jonny..._ and with that, the last of his courage left him.

He was angry at himself for getting into this situation (Why hadn't he paid more attention?), angry at the woman for approaching him, angry at himself for feeling shame...even angry at himself for feeling angry.

"The 'adult section'? I wouldn't go so far as to say that any of this is 'adult'. Pornography is the habit of a juvenile, with unrealistic notions of sexuality and anatomy." He could hear his voice shake slightly, and hoped with all his might that she couldn't hear it too.

The woman cocked a dark eyebrow, which he had no idea how to interpret. Did she agree with him? Or see through his haughty rage to the strong desire to flee. Pressing his lips together so tightly they hurt, he shouldered past her, walking quickly out the door.

The rest of the walk back to his apartment building, he berated himself for not just getting a taxi and going home from the start. Sure, it wasn't as good as stretching one's legs, but short of tripping and falling flat on your face, it was much harder to get into any sort of madcap shenanigans, just putting one foot in front of the other.

As he reached the door to his building, he looked down. The Thing was still tightly grasped in his hands, his knuckles white around the plastic box.

Well, he could never go back there again. And it's not like he had any moral compunctions against petty theft. He supposed it was his now.

…

Late that night, Jonathan sat curled up on his couch, much as he had as a teenager. However, the couch now was plush leather, not rough upholstery, and rather than baggy athletic shorts and a stretched out t-shirt, Jonny was in a white dress shirt and suitpants.

His legs were crossed "indian style", and as he shifted to get more comfortable in his chair, he pulled his knees up to his face. It became apparent that his pants were a bit too short for his legs; he had always had trouble finding pants that fit him properly. However, the draft around his ankles was the last thing on his mind.

All the lights were off in the apartment, and he hadn't turned the heat on to combat the encroaching chill. The light from the television washed over him in flickering tides of dark and light, close ups and establishing shots. It was cold outside, and the world was not understanding, but he was in the antarctic now, the monster on the ice.

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All my love, m.


	5. Halloween

I kinda just banged this out in like an hour, so it's probably not as good as my usual stuff, but I really wanted to do something for Halloween! So here you go! (p.s., I'm dressing up as Scarecrow for Halloween! Muahahaha!)

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He could have poisoned their candy. He could have slipped razorblades in with their treats. He could have grabbed them by their chubby wrists and yanked them into his apartment, but he hadn't.

It was that time of year again. Halloween. And, as usual, Jonathan Crane was feeling conflicted. He enjoyed the season; the leaves changing, the air becoming chill, carved pumpkin faces and paper ghosts adorning every doorstep. It was a celebration of fear. But it was also a celebration of depravity of the most base and – frankly – boring sort. Young women in flimsy outfits, children running around from door to door, harassing people for sugary slime.

And it was inescapable. In his building, several families would take their children trick-or-treating apartment to apartment. No need to go out in the chill October air, just stay inside. And most of the residents knew about this tradition, and kept bowls full of candy corn and chocolate bars next to their doors. Exclamations of "Oh, how scary!" and "Who are you supposed to be?" flooded into his home from what seemed like all sides.

Imbeciles. Halloween was not about candy, or costumes. Well, not per se. It was about facing your fears, becoming your fears.

This year, he had half decided to go out and really show Gotham what it feared most. But then he had come down with a truly wicked cold.

Now he was another one of them, sitting at home, plagued by seemingly endless knocking, soprano voices calling "Trick or treat!", and sticky fingers grasping at the candy in his hands.

In between visits, he curled up on his couch in front of the fireplace, under a worn chenille blanket. In his hands, under the blanket, he held his Scarecrow mask. He had run his fingers across it in small, concentric circles until his fingertips had begun to feel numb.

How unfair, that these insolent brats got to go from door to door, spreading fear and reaping reward, and he was stuck on his couch. How unfortunate that he could not wear his mask without risking his secret research.

_No one has seen your mask, Jonny; no one who's in any position to talk, at least. Come on, just one good scare? Just for tonight? Halloween comes but once a year. _

Crane was convinced. All right. And so he waited.

He put his mask on, and stood by the door, eye pressed to the peephole.

Finally, he heard footsteps. Two young boys, probably nine or ten; one dressed as a pirate, the other as some superhero he didn't recognize. Just looking at them made Jonathan's stomach lurch with irrational anger, but he kept cool.

The inevitable knock on the door came, along with the ritual chant of "Trick or Treat".

Straightening, Jonathan opened the door.

"Trick."

The effect was almost instantaneous. The boys, taken aback by his grotesque face, jumped and yelled, grabbing on to one another.

"Holy shit!" one of them cried.

"You'd do well to watch your language," Crane said, his voice as cold as a blade pressed to the skin. He stared down at the boys, who, under his unrelenting glare, were becoming more and more unnerved.

"Y-yessir," the other boy said, "We'll watch it from now on."

"Good to hear. Now. I suppose you want candy."

"Yeah, uh, you don't, uh..."

"No, no, it's fine. Help yourself." He held out a plastic bowl, filled with candy corn, Smarties, and Twix bars.

Watching them hesitantly reach into his bowl, he felt a sudden sense of...not compassion, but satisfaction. They were feeling fear, and he had shown it to them. Real fear, not cheap thrills. It was his gift to them this Halloween.

He smiled to them as kindly as he knew how as the boys walked away. As they walked, he heard them talking: "That mask, man. That thing is insane."

Crane closed the door, and this time he locked it. Sighing, he allowed himself to flop backwards onto the couch and pulled himself under the blankets again. Almost absentmindedly, he pulled his mask off and tossed it to the floor. It was time to rest.


	6. Christmas

Hey hey hey there. It's been a while! With the fall semester (namely exams) behind me, I'm glad to return to the fanfiction scene. I hope you guys enjoy!

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Was there anything more pointless than a white elephant party? Buy someone a gag gift that they'll later exchange with someone else – more like waste money on a piece of trash that no one wants.

But there was no getting out of it. It was the annual Arkham Asylum staff holiday party, and, of course, it was mandatory. So that was where Jonathan Crane was going to be spending his Friday evening.

Admittedly, it was better than Secret Santa. Naturally, loathing all of his co-workers beyond comprehension, having to buy a gift for a random person had been like pulling teeth for him. At first he'd tried to buy people gifts according to their tastes or interests, as a gesture towards trying to appear agreeable, or at least normal. Like someone who appreciated their job and work environment, rather than someone who would rather wall themselves into the asylum's basement than attend such an event.

However, his perceptions of his coworkers were so warped and off-base (_Surprise_), that his presents were invariably the worst. Each year, everyone on staff prayed that their Secret Santa wasn't Dr. Crane. Perhaps he was the whole reason they'd switched to white elephant-style parties. But it worked to his advantage anyway; rather than putting in the minimal amount of effort towards buying someone a gift, he could put in literally no effort at all.

That's why on that Friday evening, Crane was standing in front of the door to his apartment, coat on, keys in hand, visually scouring the room for anything he could grab and bring with him. He had been caught up in research all week, as usual, as well as having to review paperwork regarding an unfortunate incident with a patient who was suffering from extreme night terrors and had injured himself in his sleep. (_How on Earth could that have happened?_) Getting a gift for the holiday party had completely slipped his mind.

Half-eaten box of cherry cordials? No...Unopened bottle of merlot? No, that one's definitely to keep...Paperweight? Out-of-date psychology textbook? Yes, that seemed suitable. Everyone would see it and laugh, maybe reminisce about their own college years, and that would be it. He lunged forward to reach for it, and then tucked it into a brown paper bag, tying the handles together with red ribbon threaded through a tag that simply said "Crane" in cramped, precise handwriting.

The cab ride to Arkham was uneventful, for which Jonathan was grateful. He knew the second that he walked into the cafeteria where the party was held every year, his ears would be assaulted with the asinine chatter of the doctors, therapists, janitors, and interns who comprised the staff population of Arkham.

After exiting the cab and checking in at the entrance gates, he savored the walk up to the front doors. The walls were thick enough to keep in both the undesirables of Gotham City and the constant refrains of "Jingle Bells". Light snow fell slowly and softly, beginning to dust the ground. The flakes looked like ash in front of the sodium lights lining the path. The dark shapes of the many buildings against the light-polluted night sky seemed neither ominous nor comforting: just observing him. Neither predator nor prey, he respected the building. It was his cohort, his consort in his quest to understand and exploit fear.

All too soon, his reverie came to an end, and with a sense of dread, he placed his hand on the door to the asylum.

In the cafeteria, it was an absolute mess. He hung his damp coat on a coatrack nearest the door, and looked for the appropriate place to put the book he'd brought. On the furthest wall, all the way across the room, a table was set up with all the gifts everyone had brought. Of course it was the furthest thing from the door. He would be forced to walk across the room. He would be forced to _mingle_.

To his left, a large circle of chairs had been arranged, presumably for some kind of musical chairs game. To the right was a makeshift bar, serving hot chocolate and coffee, as well as various alcoholic beverages. He noticed the small menorah perched at the corner of the bar. Tables and chairs of all sizes were scattered about, and in the spaces between milled about the "caregivers" of Arkham. Everyone looked to be dressed to the Christmas-equivalent of the nines, in everything from party dresses to gaudy ties and bulky sweaters.

As he walked towards the back table, he noticed that even the higher-ups had deigned to attend this get-together. Unusual. Although Crane was no small-fry himself, he still noticed what his superiors did and didn't do. He was a chameleon in the workplace; he had to be. To gain enough attention and accolade to be promoted to a superior post, to gain access to the resources he needed to pursue research, but at the same time to remain unnoticed, to slip said research under the noses of everyone, required walking a delicate tightrope. Crane prided himself on his mutability.

However, he wasn't deft enough to escape from his secretary, Mina, who had had her eye on him from her first day at the office. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Mina was more than attractive, and had suitors to choose from nearly every male member of the staff. On occasion, in his less aware moments, even Crane had found his thoughts drifting to her. However he found her blatant attraction to him to be a turnoff. _No one likes somebody who's trying too hard_. Although it had made him somewhat unpopular with some of the male orderlies, who had taken to shouldering him in the hallways, like high school jocks. The politics of sexual tension never changes, he supposed.

Mina stepped directly in his path, her large, liquid blue eyes looking right into his icy ones. She was wearing a red turtleneck dress with a thick black belt around her small waist, white tights and black boots. She had a red bow in her hair, as she had nearly every time that he could recall.

"Hey, Dr. Crane. Or can I call you Jonathan since we're off the clock?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't call me anything at all, but I suppose if you must, Crane will suffice."

At that moment, Paul, the Human Resources administrator ran by, hastily stuffing a felt Santa hat onto Crane's head. "Merry Christmas, Jonny! Ho ho ho!"

At that, heads lifted around the room, chorusing "hello"s and "nice to see you"s, and a small mob of psychologists crowded around him, surrounding him with enthusiastic back pats and a combination fog of coffee breath and alcohol. Looks like the majority of the psychology department had already had a few drinks.

He glanced over the heads of his colleagues to see Mina laughing behind her hand, before she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned away.

Mortified and somewhat disgusted, Crane ripped the hat off his head and began to elbow his way through as politely as he could, with ample nods and handshakes, so as to make it seem as if he wasn't purposely digging in between their ribs with the crook of his bony arm. Not that they would notice, either way.

Finally, he made it to the back table. It seemed like the majority of Admin was here; doing what they did best: cataloguing who had fulfilled their duty by bringing a gift, and who was going on the naughty list. The gift table was covered in boxes wrapped in cartoon-character paper and giant bows; next to them, his little paper package looked scruffy.

"Dr. Crane! Good to see you! Thanks for coming by!" (As if he'd had a choice.)

"No, no problem at all. It's my pleasure to come out and ah, peace on Earth, goodwill towards men." He neither knew nor cared what he was saying, just anything to get away.

"Of course, of course. Here's your nametag." The stocky woman behind the table handed him a paper "HELLO my name is" tag with sparkly red stars and Christmas stickers all over it. He didn't even try to stifle the huge sigh that escaped him.

Eventually, he navigated his way to the bar, got an extra-large steaming mug of coffee, and sat down on one of the musical chairs seats, alone. He just observed for a while, removing himself from the situation around him as much as he could. Every so often, he'd go back for a refill, eventually adding shots of whiskey to his beverage. He rarely drank, but when he did, he did so for good reason. Watching your coworkers cavort around in hideous sweaters and fake reindeer antlers, possessed by the spirit of Consumerism, trying to ignore the fact that they were in a mental institution was one such reason. He sat, sipped, and watched.

Paul had managed to corner Dana, a visiting physician, bragging about the time his professional opinion was sought by the FBI (She didn't look very impressed.) Karen and Kathy, two nurses who were also best friends, were gossiping in a corner, shooting pointed looks at Nerra, one of the therapists, who had recently announced her pregnancy coinciding with the retirement of one of the senior psychologists, Dr. Nallen. They thought she was just trying to steal his thunder, and take attention away from someone who really deserved it. Never mind that Kathy had been sleeping with him for nearly ten years now, and Karen, unbeknownst to Kathy, for the last two. Mina stood under a branch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by orderlies, chatting with them animatedly, but Crane didn't miss that her gaze was directed solely at him. He laughed inwardly at her singleminded determination.

Finally, the call rang out that it was time to exchange gifts. Everyone found their way to the circle of chairs, turning them around to face each other, while the admin staff carted over the gifts. Everyone was being sorted by last name and then birthday to decide who would go first in choosing a present.

Crane, a few drinks in him, was bored, and feeling smug. He decided to make things a little more interesting. He walked up to one of the admin ladies and scooped the bags in her arms away from her.

"Let me help you with that."

"Oh, that's-"

"Please, I insist."

The woman was shocked; Dr. Crane, usually the Scrooge of every party, every year, was being helpful. Perhaps it was a Christmas miracle. Perhaps it was just the drinks. In her eyes, he seemed to transform from a cold, clinical man to a handsome, awkward introvert. There was some good in there, she saw it. By the next morning, she would have the rumor mill buzzing about how Dr. Crane had lifted ten heavy boxes at once, even pausing to wink at her as he offered.

As Crane carried the bags, trying to ignore the glint in the eye of the woman behind him, he reached into his pants pocket. Deep inside them, he felt small cylinders like little pills. He grabbed a few of them, and as he positioned the bags on the floor, he snapped them open between his thumb and forefinger , dusting a fine, nearly sheer powder over them. He made sure the powder settled down in the bottoms of the bags before he was seated. Whoever ended up with these packages would certainly end up with more than a cup of Christmas cheer, that was certain.

He resumed his seat, and waited for the gifts to be distributed, eventually being passed a wrapped shoebox. When his turn came to open it, inside he found a stack of worn romance novels, with creased covers and dog-eared pages.

He held them up for everyone else in the room to see and have a laugh. "Ah, would you look at that." He forced out a shit-eating grin, reminding himself that after the presents were given out, he would be free to go home and go to bed – he was coming down off of the coffee high, and his sour temper was returning in spades.

An intern named Carrie was the one to receive his old textbook, appropriately enough. It had been passed around a few times before being pawned off on her, an unsuspecting victim. However, once she'd opened the gift, everyone let out a game laugh, and he even got a few "good one!"s from around the circle.

Eventually, they all swapped gifts, and he ended up with a gift card for a local restaurant. He lost track of the psych book, but really couldn't care either way at this point. His patience had run out, his coffee supply had run out, and Santa Baby was playing for the fourth time that evening. Everyone else was lingering, stretching out the evening, going for one last free drink before going home, but he slipped out silently while no one else was looking.

The walk from the Asylum out the gate was not as peaceful this time. He felt eyes watching him, not a watchful gaze as before, but an intent stare. The voices of everyone inside echoed in his head, the music seemed on repeat, the crowded bodies and crinkling wrapping paper and the scent of peppermint and aerosol spray clung to him. Thank God he had the rest of the weekend off. It would take that long to get the disgrace of these people off of him.

He was long gone when the first scream rang out. Then another and another.

The staff of Arkham didn't remember much about that particular night. Most of them had made it home just fine, with memories of a holiday party like any other, except perhaps for the few people who had partied too hard; who had had a little too much to drink, and passed out into hallucinations. They didn't care much where the hallucinations came from – maybe the drinks had been spiked; maybe there had been "something" going around that just hadn't made it to them yet. It had been a good night, and a party's not a party until someone ends up on the ground, right? And Dr. Crane! It was like A Christmas Carol that night; helping people, giving a not-terrible gift, even wearing a Santa hat (never mind that it was for all of five seconds.) Perhaps this coming year, they'd invite him to the Valentines party, as well. After all, with the promise of a new year comes devastating foolishness.

* * *

Happy holidays, everyone! All my love, M. 3


End file.
